


your body is my orchard

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps it’s the babe that has her so restless and coiled up like a spring. One of her ladies had obliquely mentioned such a thing some weeks ago, raising one suggestive brow as she spoke of “increased, er…appetites.” Sansa had been retching morning <i>and</i> afternoon at that point, and couldn’t imagine having the energy for anything vigorous in her bedchamber, let alone the stomach for it.</p><p>Now it’s all she can imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your body is my orchard

It’s entirely unseemly.

Not Jon’s riding form, of course. He’s always been a reasonably accomplished horseman – all of Ned Stark’s sons had been trained well, even those who were not truly sons – and being Lord of Winterfell has involved much riding thither and yon, honing his skills until the saddle is as natural to him as his own feet. He’s riding his gelding now as if he was born to it, the horse merely an extension of his own body, another limb he controls without thought.

No, Sansa thinks as she watches him from her solar window, riding at a gallop towards the postern gate. What’s unseemly is the way watching him ride is making her feel.

Perhaps it’s the babe that has her so restless and coiled up like a spring. One of her ladies had obliquely mentioned such a thing some weeks ago, raising one suggestive brow as she spoke of “increased, er…appetites.” Sansa had been retching morning _and_ afternoon at that point, and couldn’t imagine having the energy for anything vigorous in her bedchamber, let alone the stomach for it.

Now it’s _all_ she can imagine.

His hips move sinuously in the saddle, a rolling motion that should be outlawed for the good of all women. Or at least for Sansa’s good. Each time he rides out, she finds herself distracted and unfocused the whole of the day, dropping stitches in her needlework, letting chores go unsupervised and unfinished, even once forgetting the name of one of her ladies for an embarrassingly long moment, a woman who’s served Sansa from nearly the time they returned to Winterfell. She’d looked at the woman’s face and thought of nothing but the way her own name would sound on Jon’s lips as he rode her like he rode that horse, until she had to excuse herself to her chambers and frig herself silly against a pillow.

Gods. Pregnant and a slattern. What an unwieldy combination.

As if called by her thoughts, he glances up when he and his small company canter through the gate, spreading out into the yard so the men may dismount. Jon stays seated, though, looking up at her in her window. It’s far enough that she can’t make out much detail of his face – nor he hers, she imagines – but still his focus is intense and would be unnerving if it weren’t currently setting her entire body aflame. Easily, he reins his horse around, so that he must turn his head to look at her. Blast him, he must know how fine a figure he cuts on his mount. This is new for them, this knowing sort of teasing they’ve only just begun to explore. There had always been pleasure in their bed, sometimes a shocking lot of pleasure, but it had always seemed tender and without artifice before. It was the way Sansa had imagined marriage might be as a young girl, full of soft caresses and sweetly whispered words. She’d had no means to imagine this new pattern between them, and now she thinks perhaps she was poorer for it, for not realizing the delicious thrill of seeing a man look at you like this, knowing he wants you and that he knows you want him just as much in return. It’s just as well; the Sansa that was wasn’t equipped to deal with such knowledge. Not in the way Sansa is now.

He’s still watching her. She can imagine the look on his face; eyes dark, chin low, his expression half worshipful and half profane. He raises one hand, two fingers touching his temple in a salute. Then he dismounts with one fluid gesture, and Sansa’s knees practically buckle as he tugs one glove off and moves his pale hand in a long, lingering stroke over the horse’s dark coat, from mane to tail.

“He took that off so I could see it even better,” she realizes aloud. “The bloody prick.” She colors at her language, even though she’s alone in her chamber, then turns away from the window before she’s driven to lean over the sill, breasts spilling from her gown, calling to him like a cat in heat. She knows from experience just how long it takes him to get from the yard to her chambers. It’s enough time to get herself off once, if she’s ready for it – and it’s truly shameful just how often she’s ready for it lately – but today she chooses to wait for him, and at just the moment she expects, there’s a rap on the door.

He could come in without knocking. He is the Lord of this House, and she is his wife. No law of the land would fault him for going where he pleased and taking what he wanted. Jon has never been like that, though. It’s what allows Sansa this intoxicating indulgence in pleasure. There are many things in her life that she prizes, but the safety she’s found with Jon is most treasured of all.

“Enter,” she calls to him. He waits a respectful beat before swinging open the door. He’s shed his thick cloak and gloves, trading heavy riding boots for lighter ones, more suited to wear indoors. His clothes are fresh and his hairline is damp, as if he’d scrubbed his face and washed the scent of the horses and the dust of the road away before coming to her. Sansa’s heart quickens, as it always does, at the care he takes with her, his efforts to present himself suitably. She would welcome him straight from the back of his horse, like a man barely civilized, but his pains touch her deeply. They also make her desire for him so potent it could bring her to her knees.

“My lady,” he says, standing at a respectful distance, following the steps of the dance.

“My lord,” she answers.

“Forgive my intrusion, but I saw you watching from your window.” His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, his feet wide. It shouldn’t be such an appealing stance, but it is. Sansa wants to insinuate herself against him, her feet between his. She wants to wind herself about him like a cat. But that is not part of the ritual they follow, one that’s all the more painfully exciting for how politely it begins, so she stays where she is, keeping her face serene.

“Did you?” she asks mildly. A small, crewelwork pillow sits in the chair beside her and Sansa picks it up, idly stroking one fingertip over the intricate embroidery. When his eyes follow the path of her finger and he sways the tiniest bit towards her, she permits herself a small smile. “I suppose I did notice you.”

“Have you need of me, my lady?”

Oh yes, she wants to say. Oh yes, very much so. I need your hands and your lips and your tongue and your cock, all at once, all right this instant. “Need of you?” she asks instead, setting down the pillow and moving towards him. “What might I need of you?” She finds herself putting a nearly obscene amount of sway in her hips, emulating the whores she saw sometimes in King’s Landing, earthy women who walked as if they had the spine of a snake instead of a woman. She’s gratified when Jon swallows visibly, his eyes so dark and glittering they could be the night sky.

“I would grant any need you had,” he says, his voice thrillingly low and coarse, as if rubbed by sand. Slowly, he raises his hand to her face, his palm hovering just beside her cheek, warming even her already fiery cheeks with his heat. The pad of his thumb just skims her lips, and impulsively she parts them, catching his thumb between her teeth and holding it on her tongue. He inhales sharply, the rest of his hand settling against her face, fingers spreading across her neck and ear. She releases his thumb, pressing a kiss against his skin before she flicks her eyes up to his, feeling brazen and daring and wonderful.

“And if I have many needs?” He kisses her then, perfectly, his tongue licking over her lips and just inside them as he steps close, his body pressed to hers. He’s as hard as stone against her. Giddiness sweeps over Sansa and she wraps her hand around Jon’s wrist where he still touches her face, holding him there, close.

“Then I shall dedicate myself to your service.”

“I confess that watching you ride drove me rather mad with lust,” she says, surprised at how velvety her voice sounds. It’s a voice she learned from Margaery at her most persuasive, she realizes with a bit of a start. Sansa had never known Margaery to seduce for any reason other than political gain. Sansa has no wish to gain, however, nor to take at all. She wishes only to give and to be given to in return.

“Everything seems to drive you mad with lust of late,” Jon says with a laugh, an uncommon daring in his smile. Sansa might consider taking umbrage, were his cock not pressing hard and insistent against her belly, the belly that’s only just begun to curve with their child. Still, she can’t let such cheek go unpunished. His shoulder is unyielding when she fetches him a clout. She thinks she could strike him as hard as she’s able and he wouldn’t even flinch. His strength is thrilling, but it is his restraint in using it that works on her far more effectively than any potion or aphrodisiac ever could.

“The way your hips moved in the saddle,” she continues as if he’d not spoken. “It was…”

“Mind-scramblingly erotic?” he supplies, earning himself another swat, and then a quick nip at his bottom lip with careful teeth.

“Potent,” she tells him when she pulls away, her lips gliding over his chin and along his jaw.

“Potent,” he echoes in something approaching a purr. Indeed, he looks as smug and satisfied as only a cat could, eyes half-lidded, a faint smile playing at his lips. Sansa’s lips twist into a teasing smirk; she’ll wipe that smugness right off his face.

“I should quite like your hips to move like that while your cock is in my cunt,” she says, delighting in the shock that shows plain on his face as his eyes fly open. “Now, if possible.” She’s never used such words aloud in her life, and certainly not with him. For a moment, she fears she’s gone too far and exposed herself as truly debased, but Jon’s entire body dissolves into a shudder, and leaves her feeling only exultant.

Exultant and so wet she might as well be melting.

It takes him only a moment’s thought. She expects him to lead her to her bedchamber, but instead he takes her hand and tugs her roughly towards the side of the room, the urgency in his movements thrilling her down to her toes. Such a novel, reckless wonder in being so wanted. In having your own desires met and matched. He hooks one foot around the leg of a bench and hauls it away from the wall, the wood screeching against the flagstones. Lifting one foot, he moves to stand astride the bench and then sits, looking at her with eyes so hot she thinks she could go up into flames like dry tinder at the touch of a match. Gods, but he is handsome, with his sweet face and his dark eyes and his big hands that touch her so expertly, in ways she hadn’t known she wanted until she felt them. He tugs her close, until she stands before the bench, her belly brushing his shoulder, her knees bumping his thigh. With his free hand, he begins at her ankle and pushes up beneath her skirts, over her hose and garters and her uncovered thighs atop them, until, with eyes growing almost comically wide, he finds her hot and wet and bare for him, without the underclothes he expected to encounter.

“I’ve been ready for you since you rode close enough to make out your face,” she says, “I’ve been waiting for you since the moment you rode away.” This confession is not the teasing seduction that her earlier confession had been. This is heartfelt, nearly painfully so. It could almost be an agony how much she loves him, how much she wants and needs him, not just in her bed but in her life and her home. They are not much given to grand declarations or soft words, the two of them. This is all she has, the only words she can find in the depths of her still-guarded heart to give to him.

He groans and pulls her astride him with one large hand sunk into the meat of her arse. Her skirts are seemingly everywhere between them, and the sweet pain of her love for him gives way to bright laughter as he wrestles the fabric down, spitting a wayward hem away from his lips. She’s still laughing when he catches her chin in his hands and gives her a searing kiss, one she could swear she feels even to the tips of each strand of hair.

“How do you want me?” he asks.

 _Every way. Always._ “Now,” she says. “Fast.” His eyes darken further and he nods, dropping a quick kiss on her lips before reaching under her skirts to ready himself. She ruts against his knuckles as he fumbles at the placket of his breeches, feeling shameless and wanton and glorious. Then he is inside her and oh, it’s better than it seemed it would be as she watched him ride. His big hands guide her hips as if they move at a gallop, her arms flung around his head and his face buried in the spill of her breasts from the bodice he’d partly unlaced with his teeth. Her toes barely touch the floor on either side of him. His hair tickles her throat. She never wants it to end.

She peaks three times, twice with his hand on her and once just from the rub of his cock against her, its sinuous rhythm inside her. To her mortification, she realizes fat teardrops have squeezed from her eyes and are rolling down her cheek. He spends within her, her own crisis still making her twitch and throb around him. “Lovely girl,” he murmurs, licking a tear from her cheek, kissing more away from her eyelashes. “Lovely, filthy girl.”

She doesn’t know how long they stay there, twined about each other like ivy. The sun has gone from the window when she finally looks up, dusk stealing through the sky in red and amber. His cheek is against her heart, the stubble on his chin surely rubbing the tender skin pink. She likes the idea of him marking her. She likes him and everyone else knowing she is his.

“Jon?” she says.

“Mm.”

“Does it make me incurably perverse if I admit that now I just want to try this with you on an actual horse?” The sound Jon makes is a laugh and a groan all at once, his arms tightening around her back, his tongue drawing a line up her breastbone.

“Perhaps,” he says. “But if it does, you have company in your incurable perversity, because now that you’ve said it, it’s all I’ll be able to think of when I’m ahorse.”

Sansa smiles. She doesn’t think there’s even a whit wrong with anything that happens between then, but even if there were, she’s not sure she’d care. If she is depraved, then so is Jon, and that’s enough for her.


End file.
